


The Light Long Gone

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for these two prompts: <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131362681#t131362681">№ 1</a> and <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131496825#t131496825">№  2</a>. To John’s surprise, Sherlock seems to have got himself another flatmate, and this time it’s something more than chaste flat-sharing. Sherlock doesn’t look happy though. Neither does John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta primalmusic :)

They’re kind of mixed messages, and John obviously fails at interpreting them. On one hand, Sherlock has invited him to his parents’ house, quite willingly, and on a suitable pretext. On the other hand, Sherlock now gives his mother a barely audible hiss when it turns out that his guest will be staying in a room right next to his: “Couldn’t you put him somewhere else?”

Come to think of it, the idea of celebrating Sherlock’s birthday is rather odd. They’ve never done it before. No congratulations and no presents. John hadn’t even known the exact date—the sixth of January, as it turns out; Sherlock had always dismissed his enquiries on the matter, and John hadn’t been so imprudent as to adopt his friend’s methods of learning things about one’s personal life and search the flat for Sherlock’s birth certificate.

Anyway, however strange the invitation was, John couldn’t have ignored it. In the last few months, after everything had been more or less sorted out, John hasn’t seen much of Sherlock, his new-born daughter being the centre of his universe, so he owes Sherlock at least a day or two of his undivided attention.

It’s not that they hasn’t been in touch at all, of course not, but it’s been mostly Sherlock texting him, and often at very inappropriate times—usually late at night, like some minor professional question couldn’t wait until morning. John finds it touching, in a way, if irritating.

But now he’s at a loss about how to behave around Sherlock, unsure where they stand. A birthday invitation is something unexpectedly personal after months of exchanging unimportant messages.

It seems like Sherlock’s family is not used to partying on this particular date either. There are hurried preparations in the kitchen, and an aroma of a slightly burnt cake. Christmas decorations are still adorning the walls at random, but despite such a festive background, Sherlock doesn’t look very cheerful; maybe it’s because his sharp black suit and dark grey shirt starkly contrast his pale complexion.

Sherlock’s countenance becomes all the more sullen when he and John find Mycroft sitting in an armchair in the living-room, seemingly bored and flipping through a newspaper.

“Oh, John,” Mycroft says, forcing out a polite smile. “What a pleasant surprise.” Then he turns to Sherlock, the same fake smile plastered on his face. “Lovely when you bring your _friends_ round. I wonder if it was the kind of friendship that you meant when you lectured me on its importance.”

And again, John doesn’t understand why Sherlock reacts aggressively to this remark and mutters something unpleasant under his breath.

“No need for resentment, brother dear. I’ve brought you a present after all,” Mycroft chides him. “An unconventional one, but you asked for it, so…” A vague gesture towards a pile of DVDs, unmarked but for dates scribbled in permanent marker. Sherlock grabs them so quickly that John doesn’t get to have a closer look; he doesn’t say “thank you”.

When John asks Sherlock about the discs, curious what an unconventional present from Mycroft might be—some kind of security footage?—Sherlock grumbles that it’s not important. A wave of uneasy sadness suddenly overwhelms John at the thought that now Sherlock has a life entirely separate from his; an even more unpleasant feeling hits him a few minutes later. It turns out there’s another guest in the house, hence Mycroft’s underlining the word “friends”. Of all people, John would have hardly expected to see Sebastian Wilkes invited to Sherlock’s birthday as well. But here he is: a posh grey suit, an indecently expensive wristwatch, and a smug grin. Yeah, it’s definitely him.

“Oh I remember, Sherlock’s _colleague_ ,” he says, shaking John’s hand.

“Not really anymore,” John retorts. Well, he isn’t, is he?

His dislike for this man wells up again, instantly, and he can’t exactly explain why. Maybe it’s the way Sherlock _doesn’t_ respond as Sebastian casts a brief questioning look at him, clearly amused. The way Sherlock doesn’t say anything at all.

Why the hell has he invited Sebastian?

At dinner, Seb does most of the talking. A bright young man with a brilliant career, or so he seems if he’s to be judged by his own words. Sherlock’s mother looks benevolently at him. “I suppose Sherlock could have succeeded in the banking sphere too if he’d put his mind to it,” she says with a meaningful look in Sherlock’s direction. “As well as in politics.” A glance to where Mycroft is idly dissecting a crumbly piece of cake on his plate. “Unfortunately, Sherlock has always been somewhat unruly. I hoped he’d at least make a scientific career, but he’s more into all this romantic stuff with chasing criminals. I gave up mine for the sake of children, you see. I had more ambitions on their part. I suppose it’s my fault, as a mother, that I haven’t explained to Sherlock well enough that being a genius isn’t a profession in itself.” She gives Sherlock a fond smile. _It’s a bit disappointing_ , her expression says, _but now it’s too late to do something about it, and I still love you of course_.

Sherlock winces at her words, like she’s worrying an old, barely healed wound. “I do have a profession.”

An affectionate smile again. “If you say so, dear. But it seems to bring you more trouble than gain, doesn’t it? Anyway, I’m glad that you keep in touch with your uni friends. Maybe it will give you ideas.”

Sebastian playfully smacks Sherlock on the shoulder. “Oh we do keep in touch a lot now.”

Late at night, John tosses and turns in an unfamiliar bed, yawning now and then but sleepless. He can hear Sherlock pacing restlessly in the next room, and it’s so much like the old days at Baker Street that a pang of nostalgia suddenly makes his heart clench. John sits up. He considers knocking on Sherlock’s door, with no particular intention, just on a silly impulse, but there’s a soft thumping of someone else’s cautious footsteps, a hesitant creak of a door being opened and closed, and then a low murmuring. Sherlock’s voice is subdued, like he keeps it down on purpose. Sebastian doesn’t. “Come on, Sherlock, don’t be a tease.” More indistinct muttering on Sherlock’s part. Sebastian’s confident reply: “No one will hear.”

Then there’s some rustling. The bed creaks. A strange sound—very much like a stifled groan, as if Sherlock’s face is pressed into the pillow, or he’s covering his mouth with a hand. John almost darts off to the door, in a surge of panic, when another sound makes him freeze in place. Thud. Thud. Thud. It’s the headboard bumping against the wall.

“So good,” Sebastian gasps, “so good. I’m close.”

John feels his face flush and his heart start beating faster than it should. Sherlock moans again, just a few inches away from him: a hoarse, quivering sound, but Sebastians’s enthusiastic panting muffles it, and thankfully, in a few minutes more it’s over.

Somehow John manages to fall asleep within an hour or so, his mind still a foul turmoil. In the middle of the night, when it’s still dark behind the curtains, he wakes up again. At first, he’s not sure what has disturbed him, but then he hears Sebastian’s sleep-clogged voice: “Keep quiet, you’ll wake the whole house up.” Are they doing it again?

In the morning, John decides to pretend he hasn’t heard anything, but of course it doesn’t work, not with Sherlock. When John catches him smoking in the yard, the first thing Sherlock tells him, after taking a long drag on his cigarette, is, “I hope you’re not too disgusted.”

“Why should I be?” John enquires unconvincingly.

The collar of Sherlock’s shirt is turned up, but it barely hides a hickey. It takes John all his willpower not to stare. If Sherlock is aware of that, he doesn’t show. He pulls on his cigarette again and blows out a long plume of smoke. “You’ve always been so thorough in emphasizing your not-gayness that it must be something personally disturbing. An unfortunate experience in the army, was it?”

There’s familiar fury welling up in John’s chest. He’d almost forgotten how indelicate Sherlock gets with his uncalled-for deductions. “I’m not talking about it.”

Sherlock nods. “We never do. But there’s something I need to ask you. On the point of sex,” he elaborates impassively. “I understand you might feel uncomfortable discussing this matter, but I need your professional advice as a… friend.”

“I’m not a _professional friend_ ,” John almost spits out, still angry.

For a moment, Sherlock is silent, a strange expression on his face. “So we’re not friends anymore,” he says quietly, and it’s not a question.

John cringes, already regretting his words. “Of course we are, but…”

Sherlock smiles faintly. “Exactly. Ever since your wedding we are ‘friends but…’. I don’t get to see you for months, unless something extraordinary happens. Maybe I should ask Mary to shoot me again so that you’d deign to spend some time with me.”

“That’s not funny,” John breathes out.

“No, I suppose not,” Sherlock agrees. He absently rubs his neck, the spot where the hickey mars it. “Is it all because I lied to you? You said you’d forgiven me. You seem to be of a forgiving nature, at least when it comes to lies.”

It’s another jab John can’t leave unnoticed, but he doesn’t know how to ward it off. “Is he living with you now, at Baker Street?” he asks instead.

Sherlock huffs, mirthlessly. “Oh no, it’s me living with him. Baker Street is too old-fashioned for Seb, and small. He prefers modern design. Lots of glass and bare brick walls and open spaces. But the flat at Baker Street is still mine... if you ever want to visit. I keep it for working purposes. Seb wouldn’t appreciate it if I were to contaminate his perfect interiors with my belongings.”

Is Sherlock so keen to gain Sebastian’s approval that he’s learned to keep his experiments at bay? Is Seb so important to him?

John shifts in place, looking across the fields, anywhere but at Sherlock. “I’m not sure I’m ready to discuss your sex life. Still. What did you want to ask me?”

Sherlock drops the cigarette on the path and treads it out. “Nothing life-threateningly important.”

John feels awkward, spending the rest of the day in Sherlock’s parents’ house. After the unfortunate attempt at a talk in the morning, they’re never left alone again; either Seb or Mycroft is always present. Maybe it’s for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

John can’t understand it, he honestly can’t. He’s still angry with Sherlock, he can feel it, but what for? He’s long forgiven Sherlock for faking his death, that’s for sure, and a lot of things have happened since then. Why this feeling of constant irritation that accompanies him in his happy married life?

To John, trudging through the mazes of his own psychology seems to be an occupation much more intricate than solving crimes. Perhaps Sherlock could explain his hidden motifs in no time, but it’s not a topic John would eagerly discuss with him. Just like Sherlock’s sex life, or his own.

There had been easy intimacy between them; now John is not quite sure if he can feel it anymore. Is it gone for good now? Is it because he’s married and Sherlock is… in a relationship too?

Was it worth it?

In the night, John lies beside Mary and tells himself that of course you can’t put it that way. It’s not as if he’s chosen Mary over Sherlock. Having a family doesn’t count as betraying a friendship. You can’t weigh one thing against the other.

Still, this perfectly logical reasoning doesn’t make him feel better.

Sherlock had once said that John’s friends hated him. Wasn’t it because he’d never known how to be a friend, how to maintain friendship if it took some effort on his part? It had been Sherlock who had initiated a relationship more complex than simple flat-sharing and started dragging him to crime scenes and restaurants and places John would have never visited on his own. When Sherlock had stopped doing all this after John’s wedding, they hadn’t been in touch often. Sherlock had drifted away, just like John’s army friends, because John hadn’t done anything to prevent it.

Is he angry because Sherlock makes the first move less and less frequently?

John’s not asleep when his phone chimes in the dark. It’s a familiar number, but when John picks up, ready to ask Sherlock if another question on medical matters couldn’t wait until daylight, it’s not Sherlock’s voice that shakes the phantom vestiges of his drowsiness away.

“John, I’m awfully sorry to disturb you at such a time, but it’s… it’s Sherlock. He’s unwell.”

Mary doesn’t protest when John storms off in the middle of the night, with an address hastily scribbled on a piece of paper.

Sebastian’s flat turns out to be exactly as Sherlock had described it. Brick and glass and classy furniture. Spacious to the point that it looks empty, like an office after hours.

Seb is clearly embarrassed—an expression that has wiped most of the usual arrogance off his face, if not all of it. “Er… False alarm, it seems. Sherlock is fine now. I think. It’s so awkward. I shouldn’t have called you. I have to apologise…”

“What happened?”

“As I said, he’s absolutely fine…”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Seb grimaces. “He sort of blacked out. You know him. He sometimes doesn’t eat or sleep at proper times.”

John nods grimly. Oh yes. He knows. “I need to see him.”

Judging by Seb’s face, he would have most eagerly said that it wasn’t necessary, but he doesn’t have the guts to do so.

Sherlock lies on an enormously large bed in an enormously large room, curled up under a duvet. In this flat, he looks out of place. To much empty space around him. It somehow makes Sherlock look… diminished.

“Not absolutely sure why you’re here,” Sherlock mutters instead of a greeting.

“And a good night to you too. Actually, I’m here help you, so no need to be that rude.”

“I didn’t ask for help. I’m fine.”

“Sherlock, lying doesn’t work on me.”

“Then what does?” Sherlock grumbles into the pillow.

Johns sighs, still very patient, and sits down onto the bed beside Sherlock. “Seb says you’ve fainted. You don’t look ‘fine’ to me. I need to know exactly what happened.”

Sherlock props himself onto one elbow, irritably pulls the slipped duvet over his bare shoulder. “You already do. I blacked out. Now I’m all right. End of story. Now, John, shouldn’t you be home at this time of night?”

His voice is a little bit bleary; he gazes hazily up at John, squinching up his eyes. It’s as if he has a problem focusing. Not good.

“Let me see your arms.” John wants to check if the crooks of Sherlock’s elbows are dotted with puncture marks again.

Sherlock buries his hands deeper under the duvet. “No.”

It sounds childish. And suspicious. John shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait.”

Seb delicately coughs behind him. “It was so good of you to come so promptly, but Sherlock seems to be okay at the moment, right? I’ll keep an eye on him. Promise. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you for such a trifle…” It sounds like “Thank you and goodbye, we don’t need your assistance any longer”.

John doesn’t look back. “Sherlock, show me your arms. Now.”

There’s an edge of metal in his voice. It always works on Sherlock when he goes into commanding mode—and this time is no exception. Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh. “If you insist.”

There are no traces of injections, to John’s relief, only a few long-healed whitish scars—probably the result of a badly conducted experiment; John’s seen them before when Sherlock had been in hospital, wounded, so it’s nothing recent. But there are other marks on Sherlock’s wrists, less expected, very much like rope burns, fresh and reddened. Sherlock immediately sneaks his hands out of John’s grip and back under the blanket—an angry, impetuous gesture.

“It was, um, a kind of play,” Sebastian explains. “Nothing to worry about.”

John feels himself starting to blush, yet he asks imperturbably, “Sherlock, please tell me honestly: have you taken anything orally?”

Sherlock suddenly starts laughing, almost hysterically. “Oh, that’s a good one.”

“I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t take drugs, if that’s what you mean,” Seb says hastily.

John doesn’t listen. “If Molly were to run a drug test now, would she find something?”

A long pause. Sherlock bites his lower lip, casts a side glance at Seb. Then he says slowly, “She might.”

So it’s drugs after all. The siren call of old habits, as Mycroft would put it.

“How long have you been using this time?”

Sherlock flops back down onto the pillow. “It won’t happen again, I assure you. I just need to rest now. You may as well go home, there’s nothing for you to do here.”

John doesn’t like what he has to say, but he should at least try a threat if nothing else would work. “Should I call Mycroft?”

“Don’t you dare!” Sherlock snarls, finally showing some emotion. He sits up again, agitated, and crossly tucks the duvet around himself, as if being naked in front of John makes him feel uncomfortable. “This is not what you think.”

“Then tell me what I should be thinking. It doesn’t look like this is for a case.”

“You should be thinking exactly what I’ve told you. It won’t happen again.” Sherlock turns away from him and says, coldly, “Seb, will you see John out? I don’t suppose you’re interested in further discussions on the matter.”

Sebastian looks clearly disturbed—either by Sherlock’s manners, or the drug theme in general, or maybe both. “John, I’m sorry but...”

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving,” John says reluctantly. Because what is he supposed to do right now? He’ll check on Sherlock later, he tells himself. Sherlock isn’t alone after all. There’s someone to look after him.

At the door, Seb wavers for a moment before asking, “Do I owe you something for, um, the night visit?”

There’s blatant relief on his face when John assures him that he doesn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, John is edgy, pacing back and forth across the kitchen, and maybe just a little bit too rude with Mary, over nothing. He says he’s sorry half a minute later and puts a mug of coffee on the table beside her, like that’s enough to earn him forgiveness.

Mary, still in her pajamas and dressing gown, sighs and puts a hand on his. “If you’re going to make me coffee every time you lash out at me because of _him_ , I think I should start worrying about my blood pressure.”

John knows all too well that it’s no good projecting his irritation onto Mary, and the fact that she’s so understanding makes him feel all the more guilty.

“I just… I dunno… I can’t understand why he’s into drugs again. Why is he throwing his life away? Is it just boredom?”

The picture is still painfully vivid in his mind: Sherlock, disoriented, with his eyes glazed over and unfocussed… John would do anything for it to never happen again. The problem is, he doesn’t know what this ‘anything’ might be.

“Call him,” Mary suggests. “Talk to him.”

“Why would he listen to me?”

Of course he does call. And then he texts. And calls again. Sherlock’s mobile stays turned off.

It takes some time and effort to get the phone number of Seb’s office at Shad Sanderson Bank. Seb doesn’t seem to be glad to hear from him.

“John, now's not the time for a chat. I’m kind of having a meeting. ’Scuse me…”

“I just want to check on Sherlock,” John blurts before Seb hangs up. “Is he home? He doesn’t answer the phone. If he’s missing, maybe we really should call Mycroft. I very much hope he’s not in trouble but…”

“Try Baker Street,” Seb interrupts him and then adds, reluctantly: “Mind that he’s a bit… confused after last night. Sort of over-reacting. Maybe it’s not a good idea, seeing him right now…”

“Thanks,” John says. “Don’t want to distract you from your meeting.”

Sherlock’s flat smells of cigarette smoke. There are at least five cigarette butts on a saucer that adorns the coffee table as a solitary decorative element, perfectly centred, not a millimetre to the right or left.

Sherlock peeps out from the kitchen, safety glasses on, a lit blowtorch in his hand. “John?”

He looks so familiarly ridiculous that John can’t help a smile. “No need to arm yourself against me.”

“Oh. This.” For a moment, Sherlock contemplates the blowtorch as if suddenly unsure what it’s for and then hastily switches it off.

John takes a look around the room, as darkened and dusty as he’d seen it while Sherlock had been away. It would appear to be uninhabited if not for the ashes in the saucer. There’s one detail that catches John’s attention. “My chair stays after all, it seems,” he taunts Sherlock, pointing at it.

He expects a sarcastic remark, but Sherlock simply says, “Yes.” It’s more disconcerting than if he'd uttered something snide.

“What are you doing?” John enquires, to break an awkward pause.

“Just—trying not to finish a pack of cigarettes in less than two hours. I’ll be done in a minute. Entertain yourself. Be my guest.”

He disappears into the kitchen again, and John is left alone to scan the surroundings. Beside the TV, there’s a pile of DVDs, very familiar. Mycroft’s present? One of the cases is open; the DVD must be still in the player.

A memory suddenly strikes him, unwanted and painful. John remembers a DVD he hadn’t taken out of his player for quite some time, watching it over and over again. The one with Sherlock’s video message for his birthday. John wonders what it is that Sherlock tends to re-watch. Something work-related, most likely. There’s a date written in permanent marker over the DVD case. Just a few days before Sherlock had returned from the dead. Probably it’s some evidence of a crime he’s missed, and now he’s catching up. But maybe… just maybe…

A strange thought, vaguely disturbing but not entirely unpleasant, tickles the back of John’s mind. Could it be a footage of _him_? It wouldn’t have been impossible for Mycroft to provide Sherlock with surveillance materials. John is almost sure that Mycroft had kept a weather eye on him. What he isn’t sure about is whether he should be angry or not if it’s true.

Seized by an impulse, John picks up the TV remote. After all, Sherlock told him to entertain himself.

The DVD loads. John turns his chair to face the TV and sits down. 

It’s nothing he imagined it would be.

It’s security footage, blurry, black-and-white. A poorly lit cell; a half-naked man in its centre, fastened with chains to opposite walls. He’s slumped forward in his bonds, long hair covering his face. Another man in a khaki uniform folds some kind of wire in his hands—a length of electric cable?—then swings his arm, hits. Again. And again. There’s no sound, but it’s even more horrifying to watch the captive’s body silently quivering under each blow. John is unable to look away, mesmerized and sickened. The man is twisting his wrists in agony, his hands spasmodically clenching and unclenching as if he’s trying to get hold of something…

“Turn it off.” Sherlock’s voice sounds like a croak.

Startled, John averts his gaze from the TV screen. Sherlock is standing in the kitchen doorway.

“I said turn it off.”

“Fine, fine.” John quickly presses the stop button, embarrassed that Sherlock had seen him watching this. “Is he alive?”

“How should I know?” Sherlock grumbles. “Probably dead by now. But he was just a henchman, a man of minor importance…” He suddenly stops. “Oh. You mean the victim.”

“Of course.”

“He’s alive. More or less. What does it matter anyway?”

“Looks like it’s an important case for you.”

“I’m sorting out a problem. So what?”

One minute Sherlock is clearly happy to see him, agitated to get his experiment over with as soon as possible, and now he’s distant and aggressive. Marvelous. _You’ve spoilt the conversation right from the start, Johnny boy_.

John offers a truce, diffidently: “If it’s something secret you’re working on—fine. I won’t ask you a thing. I’m interested in your cases, yes, but I know we’re not… partners anymore, and anyway, I’m more interested in _you_. I want to make sure you’re all right.”

His attempt doesn’t work. Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’d better watch over your own family. Do you know that Mary frequently chats with David on Facebook? Remember David? The man with the purple tie at your wedding. Mary went out with him for two years.”

John smiles, tight-lipped. He intends to stay calm. Sherlock won’t provoke him into a heated outburst and thus avoid talking about what happened last night. “Are you implying she’s cheating on me? Sherlock, that’s nonsense, and you know it.”

“I’m implying she’s unhappy. He’s just a shoulder to cry on. Just a distraction, and always has been, despite his best hopes. Some men never learn.”

“Why would she be unhappy?”

“Because _you_ are. You might be unaware of it, but we’re both hellish to live with when we’re bored. You weren’t supposed to be like that. You want action. You want trouble. Retired assassins like Mary—they don’t. That’s why they’re retired.”

_You have missed this_ , an echo whispers in John’s head. _Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world..._

“We’re fine,” John says stubbornly. “And I’d rather you don’t check Mary’s Facebook page if it’s just to spy on her. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about her. Or me. Or us. I just want to… well… to make sure you’re, um, not in trouble or something. You don’t look… happy.”

Sherlock’s lips curve in an unpleasant smile. “Since when is my happiness of so much concern to you?”

John shrugs. “Since quite a while I guess. Sherlock, I’m still your friend, so if you have something to say...”

Sherlock cuts him short: “Are you? If friendship means not seeing each other in weeks and then occasionally asking ‘Are you all right?’, then it’s highly overestimated. If we’re friends _now_ , it seems like we were something else before.”

“Oh, don’t start. Friends is exactly what we were. If you’re talking about people calling us a couple, we both know it’s not true. It’s never been like that.”

Sherlock flails a hand, angrily. “Why, being a couple only means that two people have sex?”

“Because that's usually the case. You and Sebastian—you're a couple now.”

Sherlock lets out a short laugh. “Fine. Point proven. _We_ were not a couple.”

John tries to turn it all into a joke. “Now we need to persuade others. Mrs. Hudson still doesn’t believe it.”

Sherlock takes it badly. “Why do you always need to prove it to anybody? What does it matter if they think you’re gay?”

“Maybe because I’m not?” John suggests.

“Maybe I’m not either, and look at us both,” Sherlock snaps and storms off to his bedroom before John is able to catch up with his words. The door slams behind him.

Just marvelous. A poorly chosen remark again.

John lingers in the living room for a few minutes more, hoping that Sherlock will emerge from his voluntary exile, but the door between them stays shut and the flat remains disagreeably silent.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a quiet and peaceful evening. Little Miss Watson is happily asleep, so John and Mary are finally able to indulge themselves, cuddling under a warm quilt and watching something soporifically stupid on TV. John would probably be enjoying this, or at least trying to, if only he could keep the thoughts of Sherlock out of his head. It’s been three days since John’s futile visit to Baker Street. Three days spent trudging through work and mundane problems like everything is as usual.

“Are you gonna see him?” Mary says out of the blue, as if she can read his mind.

John phrases his ‘no’ carefully: “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m not his babysitter. I’ve got my own family to look after.”

“Wasn't he your family before we met, at least to some degree?” Mary persists. “You seemed to be very close. It’s ancient history, I know, but…”

John chuckles, feeling a bit uncomfortable. “It’s like you’re pushing me into seeing him.”

For a moment, Mary purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe I feel that I owe him. _He_ pushed you back into my arms after all. Despite his own interests.”

“What interests?”

Mary looks at him almost with reproach. “As if you don’t know.”

“Oh, not you too.” His irritation breaks through all too clearly, and as always, he instantly regrets it. Mary doesn’t press further, and for quite some time the low murmur of the TV is the only sound in the room.

What John wants to ask is, “Are you still happy with me? Despite that I’m a complete bastard?” But of course he doesn’t.

He falls asleep with Mary’s hand resting on top of his—and dreams of Sherlock.

_He’s a ghost-like figure against the murky background. A pale hand rests against the door frame that very much resembles a picture frame. Sherlock would seem to be trapped on the darkened canvas of an old portrait, a stranger frozen in time, except that his lips are moving: he must be saying something, but John can’t hear a thing. No sound comes out. Sherlock’s words are falling into silence, to no avail, and his face is a mask of strained resolve—an expression disturbingly familiar…_

In the morning John wanders around the house still wrapped up in the cobwebs of his dream, unsure why it’s so unsettling—not exactly a nightmare, right?—until it suddenly hits him: he’s actually seen it before, that look on Sherlock’s face, on the evening when he’d learned about Mary’s lies. Sherlock, barely on his feet, had been trying to reason with him instead of going back to hospital—and he’d told Sherlock to shut up. _Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine_.

Oh god. Guilt slices through him, razor-sharp, and John suddenly catches himself wishing this pain was for real—a sort of atonement. He doesn’t remember if he ever told Sherlock that he was sorry for those words. What he does remember is being furious with Sherlock that evening—more angry than he’d been with Mary, and that’s another oddity of his own behaviour he can’t explain. It was Sherlock who'd been the one and only victim there. He’d got shot, he’d nearly died. What had he done to deserve his best friend snapping at him like that? Nothing. And yet…

At his wedding, Sherlock had called him the kindest and wisest human being he’d ever had the good fortune of knowing. _That speaks much of the people Sherlock used to meet in his life if you are nearly a saint compared to them_ , John tells himself mirthlessly.

_Oh yes, especially if you take Seb as an example_ , another thought slithers through his mind.

John cringes, thinking of Sherlock in Sebastian’s flat, in Sebastian's bed, in Sebastian's life.

_Would you rather he be alone? How selfish of you, John. How very… predictable. Sherlock told you that he and Mary were the two people who loved you most in all this world and thus practically declared his affection to you—and therefore you expect him to spend the rest of his life patiently waiting for your scarce visits and occasional praise._

John shakes his head, which probably looks ridiculous as there’s no one else in the room to argue with. No, it’s not like that. Of course it’s not. Sherlock deserves his share of a happy relationship, just maybe not with this slimy banker.

John ponders whether he should call Seb again instead of calling Sherlock and awkwardly asking, “How are you?”—because it’s rather dubious that Sherlock will tell him the truth about his present state of body and mind. On the other hand, Seb is unlikely to be honest either.

Maybe it would be better if he turned to Mycroft for help, just like he’d threatened to do, and let him know that Sherlock might be in danger, that he has got back into his drug habit. Then again, Sherlock wouldn't thank him for that.

In the end, John opts to call Mrs. Hudson. Just to ask when Sherlock tends to be at Baker Street nowadays; then perhaps he'll risk another surprise visit.

A wise choice, as it turns out: Mrs. Hudson has no reservations about sharing Sherlock’s problems.

“Oh John, I’m so glad you called,” she snivels. “There’s something wrong with him. Not that he’s been quite well ever since he's returned, mind, but he’s Sherlock: you never know what's going on in that funny head of his… Oh, maybe I’m just being silly… But could you please come?” She sobs into the receiver.

Sherlock is still there, in his flat, and it seems as though he hasn't left since John last saw him.


	5. Chapter 5

John goes to Baker Street right after his shift and trots up the stairs, immensely worried but unsure what he’s about to say. He finds the cigarette smell in the living-room thicker, the number of saucers filled with ash multiplied, and Sherlock sitting in his chair and intermittently plucking the strings of his violin. An obnoxious sound.

“Oh, it’s just you,” Sherlock says inexpressively and lays the violin aside on the table. “I was expecting Mycroft. I thought you must have phoned him by now to keep your conscience clear. But apparently not. Damn, I could have not bothered with shaving,” he mutters to himself.

John can’t suppress a nervous snort. “Why would you shave for _Mycroft_?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch in a wry smile. “He tends to be tediously persistent in his concern if he suspects something is off. But if a façade is in perfect condition, he doesn’t waste his time on a closer look. He’s got much more important things to consider.”

Oh yes, Sherlock must have taken his time preparing to meet Mycroft. A crisp shirt, an immaculate grey suit, and no sign of stubble. Despite all that, John wonders if Sherlock could have fooled his brother. It’s evident even to a moron like him that Sherlock is far from being fine. There are dark circles under his eyes. He looks exhausted and listless, like some of his vitality has been drained out of him. What the hell is going on here?

“So.” Sherlock folds his hands in a matter-of-fact manner. “You have some questions for me. Let’s go through your list. Have I used any recreational substances since you last saw me? No, except for caffeine and nicotine, which are hardly illegal. Do I intend to re-start a drug habit in the near future? Again, no. End of interrogation. You may go home light-hearted. There’s no need for your presence.”

“Sherlock, why do you want me out of here that much?” John enquires flatly, not frightened off by Sherlock’s hostile tone. “You once said I might come whenever I pleased.”

Sherlock contemplates his steepled hands a moment too long, then blinks as if suddenly coming to his senses. “Working. Conducting an experiment. Might take some time. I have no desire to filter out witless babble in the process.”

“Well, whatever it is you’re doing, it doesn’t look like it’s good for you.”

“Perhaps four days of sleep deprivation does not improve one’s looks, but believe me, I’m far from my own record,” Sherlock declares testily.

“You’ve done it before? What would you need that for, not sleeping on purpose?”

This time, John gets no answer. Sherlock has curled up sideways in his armchair, apparently caring no more about the immaculacy of his suit, and now lays his head on one of the arms, staring into space. John sits down opposite him to be in his line of vision. “Sherlock. You look awful.”

There’s a plate with a fried egg and some chips on the table beside the armchair, but all of the food is untouched. The plate is surrounded by mugs with different levels of cold brown liquid in them, presumably coffee. Is that Sherlock’s main source of energy nowadays?

“Do you even eat what Mrs. Hudson brings you?” John wonders. No answer again, so John tries another approach: “Does Seb know you’re wearing yourself out like this?”

“And what business might it be of his?” Sherlock grumbles, his eyelids fluttering drowsily: he’s clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Is everything… um… fine between you and him?”

“Absolutely. More than ever. We broke up. Or, more exactly, he dumped me, which wasn’t really surprising. I’m too much trouble; now he’s finally sobered up enough from his sex high to realise just _how_ much. So he texted me. A short, succinct message, very business-like: it’s always easier to text than to call to deliver news like that… By the way, if you’re going to say you’re sorry, don’t,” he warns John just in time. “The deal wasn’t working for me anyway.”

“What deal?”

“Our deal.” Sherlock shifts in the armchair to get more comfortable. “He was sleeping with me.”

“I know he was sleeping with you. Why call it a deal?”

Sherlock’s eyes close despite all his efforts. He finally gives up and doesn’t open them anymore. John can barely hear him murmuring: “Seb got what he’d dreamt of ever since uni, bringing me to heel and everyone knowing about it. As for me, I wasn’t so lucky. Wanted to sort out a problem but found myself with another one instead.” His voice becomes more and more blurry. “Need to fix it some other way.”

John would want Sherlock to keep talking because he still doesn’t understand a thing, but he feels guilty for trying to catch his friend off guard, in a state like this. Maybe Sherlock will regret opening up to him. John stands up and moves closer to Sherlock, guides him to sit upright, pats his shoulder. “Sherlock, you need to go to bed. You can’t doze off in an armchair like this.” 

“I’m not dozing off,” Sherlock protests, snapping back to attention. “I just need more caffeine.”

“You need sleep. Remember sleep?”

Unexpectedly, Sherlock jerks at these words and almost pushes John away, but then sags again. He lets John haul him up, with some effort, and lead him through the kitchen to his bedroom. It seems that Sherlock really hasn’t slept here for quite a while: his bedclothes aren't rumpled in the slightest.

John lowers Sherlock onto the bed like a rag doll. “Here you go. Wasn’t that easy?” John doesn’t bother with undressing him: it would probably be too awkward. He takes off Sherlock’s shoes and covers him with a sheet. That will do. “Just sleep,” he says quietly. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He turns to go when Sherlock catches the sleeve of his jacket.

“Sherlock, what?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t let go either. John sighs, toes off his shoes too and climbs onto the bed beside Sherlock, feeling clumsy and also utterly stupid. It’s for a few minutes only; he’s not going to lie here all night. Whatever Sherlock might be thinking now, when he’s on the verge of falling asleep against his will, it’s rather unlikely he’ll be happy to see John in his bed when he wakes up. He’s a much too private person: after Mary’d shot him, while John had been temporarily lodging at Baker Street again, indecisive about what he ought to do, Sherlock, just out of hospital and still weak, had never let John help him in any way. He had seemed to grow more and more aloof with each day; the door to his room had mostly stayed shut, and he’d rarely intruded into John’s private space, so that John would decide on his future with or without Mary on his own.

There had only been a few times when John had woken up in the middle of the night to find Sherlock silently standing beside his bed as if he’d come to check on him, maybe having heard something. It should have been unsettling, and embarrassing too, but it hadn’t. Moreover, those had probably been the only moments when John had felt that Sherlock still cared for his presence at Baker Street, because at other times Sherlock had acted as if John hadn’t been there at all. They had never spoken about these night visits afterwards.

Perhaps Sherlock’s detachment had been one of the things that had finally prompted John to settle things with Mary.

It's all the more strange to lie beside Sherlock now. It reminds John of his bizarre stag night when they had fallen asleep on the stairs, pressed against each other. It had felt… cozy if just a bit uncomfortable. Like they’d been sleeping together for ages.

Sherlock nuzzles against his shoulder, sighs, drifting off into slumber. John contemplates texting Mary that he’ll be late, but he doesn’t want to fumble with his mobile and disturb Sherlock. Mary knows he’s at Baker Street. She’ll understand.

John lies staring at the ceiling and with no intention of going to sleep. Later, he’ll slip out of the bed and sneak stealthily into the living-room… Later… In a few minutes… Sherlock’s body is pressed against his side, and strangely, it feels like home. There’s nothing sexual about it; it’s just very comfy.

It’s utterly selfish to be glad that Seb is now out of Sherlock’s life, but John can’t help thinking that it’s good news, especially because Sherlock had said that it wasn’t working for him anyway. John hazily wonders what arrangement they might have had.

Twilight is slowly enveloping the room. John considers what conclusions Mrs. Hudson might draw when it sinks in that he’s stayed for the night, but finds himself realising that he doesn’t care.

Sherlock’s breathing is hypnotically even. John closes his eyes… just for a moment…

It’s a text alert that wakes him up. Oh hell, it must be Mary worrying where her usually-punctual husband might be. Feeling a bit muzzy-headed, John shifts to get to his phone out, but in vain: Sherlock is now clutching at him in his sleep.

“Sherlock,” John calls out softly, trying to dislodge himself from the firm grip. Sherlock suddenly sobs into his shoulder—a strange, muffled sound. It doesn’t look like he’s awake. A bad dream? It’s somehow strange to think of Sherlock having dreams, let alone nightmares.

“Hey?” John calls him again, hesitantly, as Sherlock starts mumbling something utterly incoherent: the only word John manages to catch is his own name. Another barely audible half-sob, half-gasp wracks through Sherlock’s body.

“Sherlock, that’s getting a bit scary now. Wake up.” John slightly pokes him in the shoulder.

What he gets is unexpected. Sherlock does wake up, or so it seems as he goes stiff and still for a moment, but then he only draws John closer, in a feverish hug, and whispers in a tight voice: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Oh god, of course you are.”

“Sherlock, what…”

“It shouldn’t have happened. I’ve done everything to keep you safe. I never contacted you—I wanted to so many times but—I never—I knew you would come to find me—and if they learned I was alive they would use you to get to me—and they did, they took you too…”

John tries to interrupt this slightly involved, quick-fire blabbering: “Sherlock, it’s just a dream. What was it? What did you see?”

“I saw them torturing you. I saw—they—and you were screaming…”

John doesn’t try to pull free and lets Sherlock hold him, but Sherlock’s arms are wrapped so tight around him that it really starts to hurt. A thought dawns on him: “You must have been watching that video far too long, the one where some guy gets beaten. Come on, calm down. We’re home. I’m fine. It’s nothing but a nightmare. It’s not real.”

Sherlock goes silent, as if processing this information takes effort. “No. No, it can’t be—I distinctly remember—you punched me. You were hurt because of me and you were angry, it’s quite understandable. Why else would you…”

He speaks more and more hesitantly, with every word.

“I’ll turn the light on, okay?” John suggests. “You’ll see I’m perfectly all right.”

He breaks the hug to reach for the bedside lamp. “No,” Sherlock says in a strangled voice.

It all happens simultaneously. Sherlock reaches a hand after him. The switch clicks and the dim light fills the room. And suddenly something flips in John’s head. _A record in sleep deprivation… Whitish scars going up Sherlock’s shoulders… His outstretched arm—and a tortured man’s hands clenching in agony…_

“Oh god, it was you. In the footage. It was you.”

Seconds stretch into infinity as John watches Sherlock’s anguished face turn into a cold, detached mask.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s Sherlock who speaks first, with a forced smile: “Sorry. Off balance a bit. Back now. I probably should have warned you that I might feel… disoriented when I wake up. I thought I’d avoid it if I wore myself out enough to get practically comatose and sleep without dreaming, but see, I do miscalculate sometimes.”

“Does it happen often?” John finds himself saying. There are other questions buzzing in his head, more important, more urgent, but there are too many; he can’t seem to choose between them.

Sherlock shrugs dismissively. “Not every night. Not always like this. I’ll get it fixed sooner or later.”

“Fixed? How? For god’s sake, Sherlock, no wonder you have nightmares if you were… tortured.” The word feels wrong on his tongue. That couldn’t have happened to Sherlock. He’d been fine, cheerful even when he’d appeared in the restaurant and spoiled John’s proposal. He hadn’t looked like someone just out of a torture chamber. On the other hand, he’d been bleeding out internally in John’s presence and kept talking to repair John’s shattered marriage instead of asking for help, until he’d collapsed in the hands of paramedics, grabbing at John’s shoulder with a groan.

Come to think of it, Sherlock’s exaggerated brightness now looks more like a cover up. Oh damn.

“How did it happen? Why didn’t you tell me?” John demands. The wrong tone, as he realizes instantly: it sounds like an accusation. 

Sherlock snorts. “Oh yes, I should have subtly brought it up in a conversation. 'How was your day, John? Did you enjoy your dinner? By the way, you might be interested to know that I got caught while finishing off Moriarty’s network. A little adventure in Serbia. I can’t give you a full account of it: I don’t remember much. Fortunately, Mycroft was circumspect enough to confiscate the security footage when he decided to wade in. Do you maybe want to watch it with me if you’re curious? It’s quite entertaining, though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of sound. I did some squealing towards the end.” He winces with disdain, his sarcastic mask cracking for a moment.

“Why would _you_ watch it?” John blurts out, uncomprehending. He wants to rub his forehead, to make it sink in.

Sherlock makes a vague gesture with his hand. “As I said, I don’t remember much of it. I used a certain technique for diverting, for zoning out: I escaped to my mind palace when it… got too intense. And now when I have dreams about it, it’s never the way it was. It’s fairly disconcerting. I thought if I re-created the events in my head, there might be an improvement.”

A realization hits John like a slap in the face. “You have nightmares about _me_? Is that why you’ve been coming to check on me at night? And texting me when I’ve been away? To make sure it’s not real and I’m fine?”

Sherlock looks elsewhere and doesn’t say anything, but there’s no need for it. John can imagine him, disoriented like he was tonight, unsure about what’s real and what’s not, desperate to shake this uncertainty off. That was what he’d felt himself when he’d had his panic attacks. And yet he’d failed to notice anything. _There’s some irony to it that Sherlock’s worst nightmare is you. His bloody best friend._

“Sherlock… When you returned…” John chokes on his words. “Oh Christ, I saw the dates on the DVD cases. It was just a few days before that.” There must have been fresh wounds under Sherlock’s perfect tuxedo. _And you hit him. Not just once, not twice, but three times._ Surely it had done no good to Sherlock’s recent injuries. “Why couldn’t you tell me then… Why show-off instead…”

Sherlock cuts him short: “What exactly should I have said? John, I’m not dead but I feel like I’d rather be, so leave the woman you were going to propose to and come home with me? What for? So that you would go with me out of _pity_ , and maybe stay for a while, until I healed, and I wouldn’t have to squeeze forgiveness out of you? And then what?”

He grabs the edge of the sheet with both hands, crumples it convulsively. They probably both look strange, sitting in bed fully clothed, John thinks distantly.

“I might be selfish, John,” Sherlock continues, very quietly, “but I’m also vain. No matter how badly I might want to return to what we had before, it would have been excruciating to be only an object of compassion. I wanted to show you that nothing had changed. That it’s still me. That I’m still… fun. So that you would join me not out of mercy but because you wanted to—but of course it’s for the best that you didn’t, because I’m _not_ the same, and you’d have seen it sooner or later. Like you do now.”

There must be a jumble of emotions on John’s face: when Sherlock looks up at him, he lets out a small laugh. “Oh, that’s what I’m talking about. Believe me, it’s highly unpleasant to witness how someone who used to admire you suddenly realizes you’re weak and pathetic just like any other man. I already went through it with Molly. It’s so much easier with someone who doesn’t care from the start and just wants something from you, like Seb. He wasn’t disappointed in my weakness; he _enjoyed_ it. But you wouldn’t, John. You liked me being a hero, being Sherlock Holmes, brilliant and indestructible. Unfortunately, dragon slayers don’t always return from their glorious quests unscathed. Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, real life can be uglier.” His lips quiver in a bitter grin. “If you could try to forget it all, that would be… kind of you. I don’t want you to remember me like this. By the way, if you regret hitting me, forget it too. I was on heavy painkillers at the time. It’s not like I felt much.”

John opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t know what, but he has to… And exactly at this moment his phone starts chiming.

“Go home, John,” Sherlock suggests softly. “Go back to Mary, don’t make her worry. It was only a nightmare. Just an echo, nothing more.”

John fumbles to get the ringing phone out of his pocket. “I just… I just need to…”

Sherlock turns to lie down on his side, face away from John. 

In an awkward situation, sometimes it’s more convenient to text than to call, as Sherlock had said. Talking to Mary is the last thing that John wants; sending a text message would be an easier way to explain himself, yet he has no choice now but to answer the phone. He struggles out of Sherlock’s bed and storms out of the room to spare Sherlock this conversation: surely he wouldn’t want to hear John discussing his state with Mary.

When John returns after a brief talk in hushed voices, Sherlock is still lying on his side staring into space.

“Sherlock, you should know…”

John kneels in front of him, puts a hand on his shoulder. No reaction. Sherlock’s eyes are blank and empty, just like when he’d zoned out for a few seconds after John’s invitation to be his best man. He doesn’t seem to hear John calling him.

If John had thought that the evening couldn’t get worse, he'd been very, very wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

_Don’t panic_ , John tells himself firmly. _Absolutely no reason to panic. Sherlock does that. Goes to his mind palace when it gets too intense._

Had Sherlock thought that John had left him and rushed home? Had it been too much for him to handle?

The way Sherlock looks—it very much resembles catatonia. He’s unresponsive and motionless, he makes no eye contact and holds a rigid pose, curled on his side.

John had never experienced such a state a result of his PTSD; it had never got that bad. But he’d done lots of research at the time, in a futile attempt to cure himself: it's not an uncommon symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder.

What scares John the most is that a treatment strategy, as far as he remembers, can include the use of psychotropic drugs and electroconvulsive therapy, none of which would be beneficial for Sherlock's brain. If he calls for help… for psychiatric help… won’t he ruin Sherlock instead of dragging him out of his stupor?

John shakes his head. No, no, that won’t be necessary. Sherlock had always returned from his mind palace quite quickly. _When he wants to_ , an unpleasant inner voice reminds him.

What if this time Sherlock doesn’t?

John wraps a blanket around Sherlock, as if that's any help. He can’t think of anything else he can do at the moment. So he’ll wait.

It’s frustrating that he’s so good at treating visible wounds but doesn’t know a thing about mending a bleeding soul—and now it’s too late to practice the only skill that he has.

John berates himself for not seeing anything. Anything at all. If only Sherlock had told him…

_He did tell you, but did you listen? Didn’t he ask you for professional advice on his birthday? Who knows what he would have said if you hadn't cut him short. Something about his medical condition, perhaps. Something related to his sex life with Seb._

Sherlock had said that he’d had one problem but had acquired another during his relationship with Sebastian, or even due to it. The first problem is nightmares, right? What’s the second one? 

John wonders what had happened when Seb had called to tell him that Sherlock had “blacked out”. Had Sherlock retreated to his inner fortress then, too? An unhappy relationship could have been an additional trigger. Of course it’s rather obvious now that Sherlock wasn’t in love with Seb (honestly, who would be?), but even if it had only been a sex thing between them, it didn’t look like Sherlock enjoyed it.

An echo of a heated conversation reverberates in John’s mind: _“What does it matter if they think you’re gay?”—“Maybe because I’m not?”—“Maybe I’m not either, and look at us both.”_ Does it mean that Sherlock didn’t like sex with Sebastian at all? But why would he agree to it? And more importantly, what would unwanted sex do to him? It wouldn’t improve his state, that’s for sure. It’s more of a vice versa thing.

“Sherlock?” John calls diffidently. Still no reaction. How long might it take? Minutes? Hours? Days, this time? John settles on the floor beside the bed, so that Sherlock’s face is against his, and pulls in a long breath. “Look, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. Saying things like I’m sorry—‘cause it sounds like a formality. But I _am_ sorry. Do you hear me?”

Apparently Sherlock doesn’t. John barely suppresses an urge to crash his fist into something. To make it hurt. Why is everything always his fault?

“It’s your fault too,” he chides, his voice suddenly hoarse. “If you explained… we could… we could have…”

Yes, they could. John’s suddenly able to imagine in detail what would have happened if Sherlock had asked him for help after he’d returned, if Sherlock had _claimed_ him. Most likely, John would have ended up at Baker Street, especially if Sherlock had reinforced his plea with a burst of deductions about Mary. _Liar. Liar. Liar._ But Sherlock hadn’t. Was it because, from Sherlock’s twisted point of view, the fact that John had chosen Mary as a lifetime partner somehow had made her untouchable and him unneeded?

That's even worse: at some point Sherlock had made a decision to nobly back off. _Despite his own interests,_ as Mary would say.

He’d made a decision for John too. Wasn’t that the main reason why John had been so angry with him, more than he’d been with Mary? Sherlock had deliberately pushed him away, delivered him into Mary’s arms, secured a future for him, a future where John would be happy and safe without his high-functioning sociopath.

The problem is, John can’t say he’s happy, and safety is the last thing he cares about.

Suddenly he feels so alone and lost, and a rational thought that he has a family now, a family that doesn’t include Sherlock, is of no consolation at all.

“Sherlock, you can’t leave me, not again. Just for me, just stop it. I’m still your best friend, aren’t I? You won’t do this to me.”

It feels like blackmail, saying this. Sherlock had been so excited after John had called him his ‘best friend’, like he’d been infinitely surprised to hear that. “He must have mentioned it at least a dozen times, and I’m not counting his speech,” Mary had pointed out after the wedding, with an amused chuckle. But it’s not funny at all, it’s something between touching and sad. Despite his arrogance, Sherlock has always been quite insecure, and only now does John realise just how much. More than he’s been himself.

There are things John should have said. Is it too late now? This thought is unbearable.

“Sherlock, please help me,” John begs desperately. “I need you. Come back. Please. Sherlock…”

The words catch in his throat. John presses his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, with a tearless sob.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Sherlock breathes out into the crook of his neck. “Why are you still here? You didn’t call for help, did you?”

All John can say is a stifled “Oh”. For quite a while, he can’t bring himself to draw back. “You scared me,” he manages finally. “You bloody scared me. Please don’t do this again.”

“I don’t always control it these days,” Sherlock says quietly. Too quietly. “I think I’ve used my mind palace as a retreat too often. First, in Serbia. Then with Seb. I thought it wouldn’t be of any difference to him if I switched myself off while we… did things. Just for a few minutes. It was a bit… uncomfortable at times. But then it started happening against my will, I passed out for longer and longer periods. Once, Seb said he wanted to make me relax before he tried a new trick on me: he suggested I take something to loosen up, just like back at uni. I thought it might help, but I was inexcusably wrong. A combination of a sedative and tied hands…” Sherlock makes a sound close to a chuckle. “I should have known that it wouldn’t end well. I must have panicked. I lost almost half an hour then. You saw the rest.”

John moves back to see Sherlock’s face. “He drugged you? Drugged and bound you?”

“It’s not as if he did it without my consent.”

“Why hang out with him at all?” John demands, exasperatedly. “He’s a complete dickhead.”

“I told you. He slept with me.”

“Yes, I know but…” Then it suddenly bursts upon him: “You just needed someone by your side when you woke up? Sort of to remind you what’s real and what’s not? And in exchange, you agreed to have sex with the first person who was amenable? Sherlock…”

“If that’s your subtle way of saying that I’ve been prostituting myself for company, then yes, you’re absolutely right,” Sherlock retorts crossly.

“I’m not… It’s just… Why? Why couldn’t you ask…”

“Ask whom? You?” Sherlock lets out a laugh. He seems to have come to his senses. “No, John. That’s impossible, and you know it. What else? Hire a nurse to sit at my bedside? So that Mycroft would know about it the next day?”

“What’s wrong with him knowing? He could help.”

“I’m not going to a mental ward,” Sherlock mutters fiercely.

Oh. That makes John shut up for a moment. He still can’t wrap his head around what he’s learned.

“John, it doesn’t really matter now, not to you,” Sherlock says in a tired voice, his mood swinging back to quiet sadness. “I’m sorry you witnessed my rather unflattering breakdown tonight, but it was to be expected. I should reconcile myself to the inevitable: I couldn’t hide it from you forever, though I’d rather you didn’t know. I did everything to stop that happening, but here we are: now you see I’m a fake. Just a façade, crumpling with every passing day. A shell of what I used to be. There’s no light in there. Everything you liked about me is gone. I’m not the man you used to know, and I don’t want to be less for you.”

“Sherlock, when you first met me, I was a depressed limping mess, and yet you saw something in me… I hope. It took me longer to get to know you, but now that I do… I don’t think I’ll ever stop, um, liking you. Certainly not because you’re unwell. When you were in your mind palace, I hope you heard me. What I said—I meant it. I need you.”

There’s genuine surprise on Sherlock’s face, and maybe a tiny sparkle of hope. “Why would you need me?”

John sighs. “Sherlock, I may be a lousy friend, but I do love you.”

It comes out so naturally that he’s at a loss as to why he hadn’t said it much earlier.


	8. Chapter 8

John doesn’t like difficult conversations. He’s bad at difficult conversations. He’s thought long and hard about what he wants to say. Hell, he’s rehearsed it. But now, with Mary sitting in front of him on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap, all he can manage is a feeble, “I think we, um, need to talk.” And of course this ominous phrase doesn’t help to resolve the tension at all.

Oh god, he’d rather face an armed thug than his own wife right now.

Suddenly, Mary asks with hopelessness he wasn’t expecting: “Are you leaving?”

“No, of course not,” he says automatically and falters. Because that’s what he wants—and that’s what he can’t do. He darts a glance in the direction of the nursery, and Mary notices that. Her mouth twitches nervously.

“You’re still her father, John, no matter what, and I’m still her mother. Remember what Sherlock said. We’re already the best parents in the world.” It sounds more sad than sarcastic. “But she’s our baby, John, not a means to bind us together. Maybe I wish she were, to be honest, but it doesn’t work like that, does it? I think she’d appreciate it if her parents remained friends rather than starting to hate each other at some point.”

“You’re saying…”

“What I’m saying is that we both know it’s not working out, and it’s not only about _him_.”

There’s a heavy pause, Sherlock’s unspoken name lingering between them. John clears his throat to say something, but Mary is the first to speak, her voice a bit strained and even tired: “I thought I married a nice and reliable man, and you _are_ nice and reliable, but you’re also a man who walks into a drug den with a tyre lever. It might be sexy, yes, but sexy isn’t all that I need. I’ve seen a lot of trouble, enough for a lifetime. I don’t want to see more. I want something safe and ordinary: a house in the suburbs, trivial work, barbeques on Sundays, simple mundane things. It’s not the same with you. You either break or mend what’s broken, that’s what you’re good at. The problem is, I need neither.” It seems that she’s been rehearsing her speech for hours too, or maybe days. “It’s not my fault,” she adds, her hands still clasped tightly, “not this time, and it’s not your fault either, but we’re just… not compatible. It will come out now and then, again and again, and sooner or later you won’t love me anymore, and I don’t want to see that happen.”

Her voice breaks on a tearful note, and John can’t help but reach for her. It’s an awkward hug, not very reassuring perhaps because John can’t bring himself to say that she’s wrong and that he’s not relieved to hear all this from her, but at least she doesn’t push him away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he means it. He really is.

“I know.”

“Even if we, um… sort of split up… I mean… you still will be…” He feels that he’s stumbling gracelessly but can’t help it, all the prepared words long forgotten.

“I know,” Mary half-laughs, half-sobs into his shoulder. “He might be your best man, but I’ll always be your best woman.”

“Of course you will.” _That_ he can promise.

***

Sherlock is huddled up in the big armchair, like a gaunt teenager, dressed in grey cotton pajamas. He looks sullen. He looks like he’s been sitting there for quite some time, waiting for John to return and doing nothing else.

“How’s Mary?” he inquires off-handedly.

“She’s, er, a bit upset, I suppose. Which is understandable.”

“Oh yes.” Sherlock looks pointedly at the overnight bag John has taken with him. John feels a bit edgy, standing in the middle of the room while Sherlock is eyeing him with a strange expression on his face. “Still, it was very generous of her to let you stay with your friend who happens to be unwell,” Sherlock continues. “For how long?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your things. Judging by the volume of your bag, it contains supplies for five to seven days, so that you wouldn’t have to go home every time you need a spare shirt. So how long will it be? A week? I’d rather know now. It’s always better to settle terms in advance.”

Had he been preparing himself for a difficult conversation too?

“It seems like I’m getting divorced,” John says with a sigh. “So I was actually planning to move in. I might go back and forth between here and, um, Mary’s place for a while, but I planned to relocate some of my belongings later. Well, most of them. There aren't many.” A thought suddenly occurs to him: “That’s if you don’t mind. It’s kind of stupid that I haven’t asked you, so if you don’t want me to…”

Sherlock interrupts him. “Your chair is still here,” he says quietly.

“Well, it’s good to be missed,” John admits and finally drops his bag to the floor. With unpacking on his mind ( _should he do it upstairs, or is it better to check first if Sherlock hasn’t turned his former room into a laboratory?_ ), he doesn’t notice Sherlock’s look, still gloomily pensive, until Sherlock says, “If you want to have sex, I’m amenable.”

John blinks at him. “Hm?”

“I’m amenable,” Sherlock repeats, contemplating some spot on the floor. They seem like carefully chosen words. Not ‘I want that too’, not ‘we could try it’. He’s amenable.

“I should warn you that I have some scarring that might be a turn-off,” Sherlock goes on in a business-like manner, but with his gaze still lowered, “but it’s mostly on my back, so if you prefer not to see... Seb didn’t mind, I think he liked the thought of me receiving those scars, but I could lie face up if it’s too disturbing...”

“Is that what you told Seb?” John blurts out. “Offered him a deal—and he agreed?” 

Sherlock wraps his arms around himself sulkily—an unconscious protective gesture.

John breathes in and out, cursing his harshness. “I mean we don’t have to. _You_ don’t have to. I’m staying anyway. Also, do you mind if I find Seb and punch him?” he adds as afterthought. “Maybe a few times? I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards, but he’s working too hard to maintain his reputation.”

Sherlock dares a quick glance at him. “Better not at his office. You’ve already been given an ASBO.” 

“Yeah, it would be sort of inconvenient to make an appointment with his secretary. What would I say when she asked for the purpose of my visit?”

They look straight at each other and suddenly start giggling, quite out of place, like in the good old times.

Sherlock grows serious first. “So. It’s not just for a few days, it’s… for a long time?”

John nods. “Yep.”

“Yet we won’t be sexual partners, just friends?”

That’s a tricky question. They both seem to have unhealed wounds. It doesn’t look like a good idea, rushing into experiments right now.

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll, um, find out. But I’m staying in any case. And I suppose… we’ll be sleeping together for a while? At least while you have nightmares. Maybe after that too?” he clarifies cautiously.

Sherlock considers it and declares: “Fine.” 

John nods again. “Good that we’ve settled that. By the way, you haven’t seen _my_ scar properly. Maybe it will be a huge turn-off for _you_.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but Sherlock’s eyes suddenly light up. “May I see?”

***

Mrs. Hudson coos around them constantly. “It’s a relief, to be honest. Not that I don’t like Mary, she’s a lovely woman, and it’s always a bit awkward for a child of course when mum and dad live separately, but I knew it wouldn’t work, ever since your wedding when you started rubbing your ring hand during Sherlock's speech, just as if the ring felt uncomfortable.”

Everyone acquainted with Sherlock Holmes seems to adopt some of his deduction skills. Not John Watson though. It’s unfair.

John consoles himself with a forkful of baked beans. As soon as he finishes off the sausages, he’ll take the second plate upstairs and make Sherlock eat in his presence before he goes to the surgery, or Sherlock will forget to recharge himself again.

“It’s just like old times, having you back here,” Mrs. Hudson croons. “Sherlock looks so much better now, not so subdued. Just maybe tell him that I’d rather he doesn’t scorch the kitchen table with his chemicals.”

“Right,” John mutters indistinctly, munching on his toast.

“I’m so happy you and Sherlock have finally settled everything. If you’ve found the right one—the person that you click with—it’s the best thing in the world. I’ve always said that.”

“We’re not…” John starts contradicting, with his usual fervor—and trails off, not sure what he’s about to say. They’re not lovers, yes. He doesn’t know if they will be.

But it’s more important what they _are_ than what they are not. And it’s probably more than friends.


End file.
